


pie in the sky

by cottagecorecas



Series: gardenias and daffodils [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic, Domestic Castiel/Dean Winchester, Domestic Fluff, Gardener!Cas, M/M, badly executed metaphors, baker!cas, cas just being cute and loving nature, everything I've ever wanted for them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:02:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24808963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cottagecorecas/pseuds/cottagecorecas
Summary: It’s been a year and a half since tfw 2.0 killed Chuck, they all magically survived and Cas’ deal with the Empty fell through because it wasn’t legally binding (and that’s on contracts made under duress in american contract law). Cas decides to bake Dean a pie with the cherries from his garden because that’s what domestic gays do.
Relationships: Castiel & Sam Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Series: gardenias and daffodils [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1805440
Comments: 10
Kudos: 59





	pie in the sky

**Author's Note:**

> warning: nothing actually really happens in this. it’s literally cas gardener simulator and being soft for dean. i wrote this for the serotonin bc the spn angst has really been something else lately (i’m looking @ u 15x03 deancas breakup scene & 15x20 imdb cast list) and i needed happy domestic deancas to exist somewhere.
> 
> (i really tried to keep them in character but it was hard bc the last thing i wrote was a terrible twilight fanfic in 2009 and cw spn give us nothing but scraps. pls forgive me)

Standing at the backdoor, Castiel admired the view, a smile on his face. The grass was long overdue for a cut, the path needed de-weeding, and the fence was only half-painted, but he couldn’t help but love his little garden.

He strolled up the cobbled path, his eyes wandering over the box planters that lined either side. Dean had built them for Castiel after he’d mentioned in passing that some of his plants had outgrown their pots. His strawberry plants lived in the one closest to the house, but before he’d made a home for them there, they’d refused to grow. He’d watered and fertilised, moved the pots to the sunniest spots so many times he’d lost track. Much to Castiel’s frustration nothing was helping, and he’d almost given up hope of them ever bearing fruit, until a week after moving them to the planter he noticed that they’d started to flower, the berries little green buds with white petal crowns. Today they were ripe, blushed red and shiny amongst the green of the leaves. Dean seemed to have that effect on things.

Just behind them, in the second planter, there was an abundance of herbs: parsley, chives, oregano, mint, thyme, basil. Sam liked to joke that if you could name an herb, Castiel probably grew it. Unlike the rest of his plants though, he’d nurtured these ones from seeds, so to see them fully grown, bushy and thriving made Castiel feel like he did whenever Jack won a game of draughts against Dean, or helped Sam clean up after the weekly family dinner – a parent proud of his children.

His tomatoes sat just beside them, little orange globes dotting the vines, not quite ripe enough to pick. Castiel hadn’t known what to do with the first bunch that’d grown a few weeks before – Dean was still as adverse to fruits and vegetables as he’d always been, and despite Castiel’s best efforts, it was starting to rub off on Jack. Castiel worried that they’d rot before he had a chance to use them until, one evening, Sam saw them hanging bright red and shiny, and practically begged Castiel to take some home with him. Pleased that they wouldn’t go to waste, he agreed, and after there was unspoken arrangement that every week, when he and Eileen came for dinner, Sam could pick as many of them, and anything else Castiel grew, as he wanted.

Castiel grew flowers too. When he and Dean had moved in, the patch of dirt at the end of the garden looked more like a freshly-dug grave than a flowerbed. Castiel, knowing that Dean had seen far too many of those in his lifetime, was determined to change that. In just a few days, he’d made it home to sunflowers, which Jack was particularly fond of, and gerberas, their pink and orange and yellow faces bright against the dark earth, and his personal favourite, French lavender, which had tripled in size since he’d planted it. Its scent, fresh and soapy, filled the garden, and it’s purple, cylindrical blooms were always busy with honeybees from the hive that lived just beside it.

Stood amongst the fruits of his labour, Castiel drank in the moment. It felt like Heaven out there in his garden – the humming of the bees, the rustling of the leaves – the warm sun smiling on his face. He breathed in, letting that calming, fragrant smell of lavender fill him up. This wasn’t a distant dream or a borrowed memory. This was real. Home.

Jade against the clear blue sky, the leaves of his cherry tree swaying in the gentle breeze caught his eye. Dean had bought it for him the previous Christmas, and Castiel thought back to the moment he’d announced the name of the variety, a Compact Stella, casual and confident, like he hadn’t spent the majority of his life trapped in pokey motel rooms, starved of any and all greenery. Castiel only had to look at a plant to know what kind it was, but humans weren’t quite as privy, and he was certain that Dean Winchester had never taken an interest in the various varieties of fruit before that day. Castiel remembered how he couldn’t stop his expression from exposing his disbelief, as much as he tried.

_“Not just a pretty face,” Dean said proudly._

Castiel remembered letting him savour the moment. It wasn’t often that Dean felt secure in his intelligence, and it made Castiel’s heart so full to see.

_“I didn’t expect you to be so well versed in horticulture.”_

_“Horty-what-now?” There was his Dean. Castiel caught eyes with Sam from across the room, and they shared a look._

Moving towards the tree, Castiel recalled how that evening, when everyone had gone to bed, their bellies full and hearts merry from the day’s festivities, he’d come across a recipe for cherry pie in his new cookbook, a gift from Eileen, and bent the page corner to find it again another day.

Even half a year later, the tree was relatively small, still in its nursery pot, but the hottest Kansas spring on record and his tireless fostering had meant that now it was studded with dozens of little red cherries. In the sun, Castiel thought they twinkled like rubies. Squinting his eyes, he took one between his thumb and index finger, and carefully twisted it, studying the surface – there it was, that rich burgundy he’d waited so long for. Today was the day he had imagined all those months ago.

He made his way back to the kitchen, and must have rooted through at least three cupboards before he found what he was looking for. When he returned to the tree, there was a colander in the crook of his arm, which he placed on the ground just beside his feet, and a pair of scissors in his hand. He carefully snipped the stems from their branches, one by one, until the colander was brimming with cherries, round and gleaming. Cradling them with one arm, he made his way back to the kitchen and watched them glisten as he rinsed them under a cool jet of water. His lips pulled into a smile. He reached a hand to the shelf just above his head, finding the cookbook, and flipped through the pages. Once he found the folded corner, he opened to the page and, following the instructions, he got to work.

The recipe called lemon juice, so he headed back out the open door to his tree. Hanging happily amongst its green friends was a lone yellow lemon, and Castiel felt guilt rise to his chest at the thought of picking it. Reminding himself that it was for something – someone – special, he offered it quick “sorry” and plucked it from the tree.

Using both hands, his fingers stained a dark pink, he scooped the now pitted and halved cherries, into a worn ceramic pot, and placed it on the stove. He poured in the sugar and watched it pile into a small white peak, crunching against the wooden spoon as he stirred. Whilst the fruit simmered, he worked on the pastry. He’d just scraped it from the bowl and dropped it onto the counter, throwing flour all over himself as he did, when the sweet smell of the cherries caught his attention again, and he turned back to the pot. Now bubbling and jammy, Castiel removed them from the heat and returned to the dough.

It was time to assemble and Castiel was nervous. In all his years, he’d barely cooked never mind baked anything, and he wanted this pie to be as good for Dean as he could make it. He remembered reading somewhere that food tasted better when it was made with love. He didn’t understand how, but just in case it was true, he thought of Dean as he worked.

With the palm of his hands he caressed the dough, Dean’s soft skin, and with a gentle press of the rolling pin he reassured the cracks from the surface like creases from his brow. He draped the pastry over the tin like a blanket over his sleeping body, his fingers tucking him in as he moulded the dough to the grooves of the metal. Like scissors through gauze, he trimmed the edges and used the scraps to patch the rips, bandages on Dean’s wounds. He tilted the pot and poured the filling into the centre, easing it over the pastry with small, careful circles, like the back of the spoon was his thumb on the blushed apple of Dean’s cheek. Finally, as he weaved the lattice on top, he thought of their fingers lacing.

The familiar roll of the Impala in the driveway brought him back from his reverie. There was the creak of the car door, the slam as it shut, and the sound of Dean’s key in the lock. Castiel was suddenly very aware of the mess he’d made of his clothes. The key twisted and the door opened.

“Cas?” he heard Dean call from the hallway.

“I’m- I’m in here,” he called back, brushing away the worst of the flour from his trousers. There was a clunk of heavy boots as Dean walked to find him.

“The kid’s dropped off. Sam, Eileen and the bump say hi.”

Castiel quickly spun around, hiding the pie with his body. Before he had a chance to make himself look anymore presentable, Dean was in the doorway clutching a pack of beer. He was wearing that green shirt that Castiel loved on him – the one that matched his eyes and made his skin look even more sun-kissed than usual. The pink bridge of his nose, sunburned from falling asleep outside the day before, was dotted with hundreds of tiny golden freckles. Castiel could barely breathe. Dean always looked handsome, but today he found him almost incomprehensibly beautiful.

“Something smells good,” Dean said, placing the beer on the side. He looked at Castiel and smiled, a crease forming between his eyebrows. “Why are your hands pink?”

Castiel peeled his eyes from Dean to his fingers for a second before they were drawn back again. “It was meant to be a surprise.”

“A surprise?” Dean raised an eyebrow, before turning to the beer at his side, releasing one from its package and twisting off the top. He leaned against the counter; one leg crossed over the other and took a swig.

“I may have attempted to bake you something.” Castiel replied before turning around and pretending to work on the pie, not wanting Dean to see his cheeks burn with embarrassment. Why had he thought this was a good idea again? He had wanted to make Dean happy, because Dean hadn’t had much to smile about in his time on Earth, and yet he’d still managed to make it so that Castiel did. Castiel had wanted to return the favour, but this seemed so ridiculous now – Dean had helped Castiel escape Heaven, taught him that it was better to have free will, given him a place to call his own, and all Castiel had to offer was a pie.

“So, what, do you have a nineteen-fifties housewife kink or something?”

As unfunny as the joke was, it grounded Castiel and he was grateful for it. Not wanting to encourage him however, he sighed and tried to sound as unimpressed as he could. “No, Dean.”

Hearing the tone of Castiel’s voice, Dean chuckled. “Okay, Martha Stewart, what did you bake me then?” Castiel didn’t know who Martha Stewart was, but before he could ask, he heard Dean approach, and then there was a hand on the small of his back. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dean’s smug expression change into something he could only describe as childlike wonder, his eyes wide and gleaming. ~~~~

“Cas,” he starts, his voice quiet and earnest, “is that what I think it is?”

“If you think it’s cherry pie, then yes.”

“No, no, that’s not just cherry pie, Cas – that’s _homemade_ cherry pie.”

“I wouldn’t get too excited. It could taste terrible. I've never baked anything before.”

Hearing that, Dean goes to drag a finger through some of the exposed filling and Castiel swipes it away, reaching for the wooden spoon he’d saved, still stained red with a thin layer of the cherry mixture. “Here.”

Dean let out an “ooo” before abandoning his beer and taking the spoon, pushing the whole thing into his mouth. Castiel couldn’t help but smile; there was something about Dean’s childlike excitement over food that was so endearing, even if he suspected the reason for it wasn’t anything but heart-breaking.

In between licks, Dean tucked his tongue into the corner of his lips and reached into the back pocket of his jeans. He pulled out a black and white photograph.

“There’s a new scan of the bump. I got Sam to make me a copy,” he says. He gives it a quick glance, before holding it out for Castiel to see, leaving the spoon, licked clean to within an inch of its life, on the side and picking up his beer again.

Castiel eyed the photograph and smiled. The baby had grown so much since the last scan, and it still never ceased to amaze him that human life, as precious and fragile as it was, could come from just a few cells. Chuck may have created the first life, but it was humans that did the hard work. They built it from nothing using pieces of themselves, and kept doing so long after that life had been born. It was something so pure, and inherently selfless, and it’s exactly what Castiel loved about humanity. 

“Yeah – she’s gonna’ be a bruiser,” Dean says, a far-away look on his face, a small smile on his lips. Castiel watches as he takes one last look at the photo before he returns it to his pocket. He could have sworn that Dean was shining in that moment – he already loved his niece so much, already so unconditionally proud of her and they hadn’t even met. Castiel thought she might be the luckiest girl in the world.

“Well, since you made this beauty,” he gestured to the pie, “what can I help with in your garden? Does the fence still need painting?”

“Dean, you don’t have to-“

“No, no,” Dean frowned, eyes firm on Castiel, “Cas, I’ve got it.” He took a few more gulps of his beer before placing it on the counter and making his way to the backdoor, squeezing Castiel’s elbow as he passed. Before he disappeared, he looked back over his shoulder, a grin on his face. “Just make sure there’s a plate of that pie waiting for me when it’s done.”

Castiel smiled, but there was an ache in his chest. It hurt him that Dean was so alien to receiving things, even with something as meaningless as this pie, that he thought he owed Castiel for it. Didn’t Dean understand? He had given Castiel a family – a home. Castiel could never ask for anything else again.

He watched Dean leave and turned back to the pie. Reaching for the cookbook, he held it up and compared his creation to the photograph inside. The pastry’s edges were a little jagged in places, and the lattice on top was messy and uneven, but Castiel didn’t think that mattered much. He’d always had a soft spot for things that were rough around the edges anyway. Satisfied, he set it in the oven and followed Dean into the garden.

It had been half an hour, and he’d gotten so lost in pruning and watering and saying “hello” to the bees that he’d almost forgotten it was still baking. He headed inside, hit with the sweet scent of butter and sugar, and peered through the glass of the oven door. The cherry filling bubbled up between the gaps in the pale gold pastry. It looked delicious, even to him, and he wondered if he’d become human enough to taste it as Dean would.

When it had cooled enough, he cut a generous slice of the pie, the pastry flaking as he pierced the centre with the knife. The filling oozed as he lifted the piece from the tin to the plate. Still a little warm, it made the edges of the cream Castiel spooned on top soften and drip down the sides. Pie and fork in hand, Castiel walked over to the open back door. He leaned against the doorframe and watched as Dean, his back turned to Castiel, spread a thin layer of white paint up and down the wood. The sun was due to set, the horizon glowing pink and orange, its light making Dean glow. Castiel had stood there for at least a minute, drinking in the fit of Dean’s shirt over his broad shoulders, and the mess of his hair, now completely damp with sweat from that relentless sun, and the sound of his whistling as he eased the bristles up and down, before Dean finally turned and caught him staring.

“Enjoying the view?” Dean smirked, straightening up.

Castiel tried his best to hold back a smile – sometimes, he liked to play innocent just to see the look on Dean’s face. “Yes, the fence looks much better painted.”

Dean rolls his eyes.

“I think you’ve earned this,” Castiel lifts the plate in his hand and heads down the steps. He sets it down with the fork at one end of the weathered table, just in front of the house, before finding a seat opposite. Dean abandoned his brush and rushed over, beaming, rubbing his hands together as he walked. As soon as Dean had sat down, he grabbed the fork and wasted no time shoving a piece of the pie into his mouth. He had maybe chewed twice before his eyes fluttered closed, his head tilted back, and he let out a satisfied moan.

“Mmmm, oh wow” his lips smacked around the mouthful of pie, “Cas, I’m not-mmm, not just saying this – this might be the best pie I’ve ever had.”

“That can’t possibly be true, Dean,” Castiel replied. He secretly hoped it was.

“No, I’m not kidding,” another piece goes into his mouth, “Mmm-I have _never_ had pie like this. You’re a natural.”

Castiel let out a breath in disbelief. “It’s probably the cherries. Apparently, the man that bought the tree spent days researching the best variety.”

“He sounds like a catch,” Dean jokes, before shovelling another piece of pie in his mouth so big that half of it was left on his lips.

Castiel takes him in, his eyes wide and joyful, crinkled in the corners, the streak of paint on his cheek, his lips red and coated in pie. He feels his heart swell and realises that love really was the secret ingredient after all. It wasn’t baking that Castiel was good at – it was loving Dean Winchester.

Catching Dean’s eyes, he says, “He is,” and reaches over to wipe away the worst of the mess. Before he could pull his hand away, Dean took it, moving it to his cheek. His skin was impossibly soft and warm from the sun, if not a little sweaty. Leaning into the touch, Dean closed his eyes for a second and ran a thumb over the back of Castiel’s hand.

“Thank you, Cas,” his voice is warm and sincere, and he turns his head to place a kiss just above Castiel’s wrist. His lips were sticky, but Castiel didn’t care. There was a time when he had had to relish the pats on his shoulder, or the occasional hugs they’d shared. He had never let himself hope that one day Dean would want him to cup his face, or that he’d kiss his skin so softly that he could have sworn his heart stopped.

“It’s just a pie, Dean.” 

Dean’s eyes are serious. “For everything,” he clarifies, and once he is satisfied that Castiel understands, he lets go of his hand and resumes eating.

Castiel decided he liked baking.

After Dean had finished eating, he went back to work. Castiel had washed the dishes and was now back at the table outside. He was too engrossed in his cookbook to notice that Dean had sneaked back to the kitchen more than once to steal a few more mouthfuls of pie. It was only when Castiel asked him if he liked doughnuts and got no response that he looked up from the page. The fence was now completely painted, the brush resting on top of the paint can in the grass. Castiel looked around. Dean was nowhere to be seen. Castiel stood up, leaving the book on the table, and headed inside.

There was a trail of crumbs leading from the pie across the counter, a fork left on the side. “Dean?” Castiel called. Still no response. He turned the corner and entered the living room. There Dean was, slumped in an armchair, his eyes closed and mouth slack. A beer rested on his chest, just shy of tipping over in his loose grip. Castiel’s eyes observed the softness of his features and the slow rise and fall of his chest. Dean was so handsome, even like this, and there was a warmth spreading under Castiel’s skin.

He’d fallen asleep with his shoes on.

A chuckle escaping his lips, Castiel shook his head and edged forward, keeping his footsteps as light as possible. He didn’t want to wake Dean if he could help it – he’d already lost enough sleep to last him a lifetime. Untying the knots in his laces, Castiel eased the boots off, one after the other, and Dean stirred, his eyes opening a crack. Castiel’s heart sank, but as soon as those green eyes saw him, Dean’s lips pulled into a lazy, sleepy smile and Castiel couldn’t resist. He leaned across and placed a chaste kiss on Dean’s forehead, his lips barely touching his skin. He heard Dean sigh underneath him.

“Sleep well, Dean,” Castiel’s voice was hushed and low, and he combed his fingers through Dean’s hair, moving it from out of his face. Brushing a thumb over the spot where his lips had been moments before, Castiel prayed that Dean would only have good dreams. He didn’t pray much anymore, but it was the least he could do. Castiel didn’t need to sleep to have good dreams; Dean had made his life the sweetest dream of all.

**Author's Note:**

> i didn’t want to write this at the start bc spoilers, but yeah basically jack lives with cas and dean, who are practically married, and visits his other dad sam on weekends. it’s unconventional but they make it work.
> 
> if you actually read this ily may your skin always be clear and your ass phat <3


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